Bound: A Merged Fairy Tale of Beauty and the Beast & Sleeping Beauty (The Enchanted Rose Trilogy: Book 2)

by R. M. ArceJaeger

  “Thank you,” she mumbled when the comb tapped her shoulder to indicate it was done. “Thank you all.”

  The bed had already been folded down, and she slipped into it gratefully. The drapes descended around her to block out the late afternoon light, and the covers pulled themselves up to her chin; Rose was too tired to protest their action as she drifted off to sleep.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Rose awoke to crimson drapes and sheets as soft as dandelion fuzz. For a moment, she thought she was still in a dream, before all at once remembering that her surroundings belonged to the Beast’s forest lodge, and that her presence there meant she would never see her family or her home again.

  Tears trickled out of the corner of her eyes, soddening the pillow underneath her head. Rose found she had to struggle to breathe, as though an invisible hand were squeezing her lungs. Desperately, she tried to concentrate on the knowledge that her father was safe at home, but misery and panic were not so easily put aside. All she wanted to do was bury her face in her pillow and sob, but she feared that if she did, she might never stop.

  Seeking a diversion, Rose tried to sit up and let out a gasp of pain—the motion had sent bolts of fiery agony shooting through her back and legs. She sank back down against the pillows and her discomfort eased a little, but her body still throbbed from the unaccustomed strain having ridden a horse. Rose shifted a little and flinched; a tender touch to her backside told her she had saddle sores as well.

  Gritting her teeth, Rose managed to force herself out of bed. The light in the room was brighter than it had been when she had fallen asleep, and Rose realized with a shock that she had slept not only all night, but all morning as well. She had never been allowed to stay in bed past dawn her whole life—to have done so now just reminded her further how much her life had changed.

  Uncertain what to do, Rose cast a helpless glance around the room, only to have her attention recaptured by the window. Yesterday, she had been too overwhelmed to pay much attention to it, but now she saw that it was not simply a peasant’s hole in the wall which could be shuttered closed, nor was it a pane of translucent animal horn such as only the rich could afford. Instead, the window was made of glass so clear, it was hard to believe it was there at all.

  Fascinated, Rose drew nearer to the window, intent on a closer examination. As she approached it, however, the comb on the dressing table in front perked up in anticipation.

  “In a minute,” Rose instructed, her mouth quirking a little at how quickly she was becoming accustomed to objects that moved about on their own.

  With the tips of her fingers, she gently touched the window pane. The glass was cool and smooth, with crafting so perfect she could find no bubble, no flaw in its construction.

  The view it framed was just as impressive. Verdant grass stretched out to the tree line an acre away. Between the forest’s edge and the lodge shone the waters of a small pond, and to its right, Rose could see a garden all abloom. Suddenly, she shivered and drew back from the window as she realized what species of flower that must be.

  Wincing at the aches in her body, Rose sat down tenderly upon the stool, and the comb eagerly began to work order into her sleep-mussed hair. As she waited for it to finish, Rose examined the objects on the dressing table with interest.

  There was a box of cedar wood that possessed a faint, pleasant scent—it reminded her of Darren, when he would come to visit her after spending a day in the woods cutting timber. This time, Rose could not stop the tears from welling in her eyes.

  Darren, Darren, I will never see you again, and I could not even risk bidding you farewell.

  Sniffling a little, she wiped away the tear tracks and opened the lid of the box. Her eyes widened as she stared at its contents. Hairpins encrusted with rubies and diamonds filled the contours of the case, worth enough to feed her entire village for a year. Rose’s hands trembled at the bounty she held, and she carefully set the box back down before she could drop it.

  To the right of the box was a hand mirror which, like the window pane, had neither warp nor distortion in its glass. Never before had Rose seen her face in such perfect detail, and she stared at herself for a long moment, noticing as if for the first time the clarity of her blue eyes and the starkness of the scars running down her cheeks.

  To the left of the box was a pitcher of water and an empty ceramic washbowl for cleaning her face, as well as an embroidered cloth for patting it dry. Rose eyed the cloth nervously, hoping it would not get any ideas about scrubbing her skin, but it did not move from its spot.

  The comb gave one last stroke of her hair and settled back down onto the table. Rose reached up and ran her fingers through her hair in assessment—the strands parted easily beneath her touch.

  “Thank you,” she said with sincere gratitude. “You have done a fine job.”

  The comb quivered a little as if in glad acknowledgement and then lay still.

  Rose automatically began to spin her hair up into the bun in which she normally wore it, but paused, remembering that the only tools she had to pin it in place were covered in a king’s ransom of jewels. Part of her wanted to see what her hair would look like so bedecked, while another part warned that it was wrong for a peasant to wear such finery—dressing above one’s station was a crime, after all.

  Who is there to arrest me here? she thought wryly. I am already a captive.

  Removing several pins from the box, Rose began to put up her hair.

  * * * * *

  Carefully, Rose hobbled down the stairs, one hand braced against the side of the wall for support. The entrance corridor stretched out before her and closed doors extended off to either side. Curious, Rose placed her hand against the first door on her right and pushed, revealing a kitchen in motion. Knives sliced and diced various vegetables, then expertly flicked them into a stew while avoiding the spoon that was slowly stirring.

  Rose watched for a few minutes, fascinated, until her stomach growled an impatient reminder that she had not eaten for a full day. “If it is not too much trouble, might I have a piece of bread? I promise not to let it ruin the supper you are making,” she ventured, but the kitchenware paid her no heed.

  “You must command them,” a voice rumbled from beyond the corridor’s ceiling. Rose froze, too afraid to look up. The very sound of the Beast’s speech made her tremble, and it was all she could do to hold her ground.

  “You are their mistress while you are here,” he continued. “Order them to fulfill your desires, and it shall be done.”

  “But that seems so rude,” Rose protested, then covered her mouth, horrified she had dared contradict such a powerful creature.

  “They are only objects. They have no feelings and cannot appreciate politeness as a human can. They do as they are told and nothing more.”

  His voice was scornful. Rose thought of the comb and the washcloth and how despondent they had seemed when she had initially refused their help, and could not agree with the Beast. She took her hands away from her mouth.

  “Then why do some of them act on their own, even though the others wait for me to use them?” Rose inquired more boldly.

  The rafters creaked above her head, and she glanced up before she could stop herself. Rose could see nothing, but it was disconcerting to know that the Beast was up there watching her.

  “They know their purpose. Over time, some of them have grown to take initiative with it, while others have standing orders they must implement. Most, however, still need to be directed.”

  “But what if they do not want to be directed? It seems unfair to force them to obey.” Like you forced my father to obey when you made him promise to return.

  Though deep and harsh when he answered, the Beast’s tone sounded nonetheless puzzled. “It is their purpose to serve us. After all, what is a cloth for except to clean, or a comb for except to comb?”

  “Maybe it would like to make music,” Rose replied sadly, the memory of her sweetheart playing his comb harmonica making
her heart ache anew. She bit the inside of her cheek until the image faded and she had control over her emotions again. She would not show weakness in front of the Beast!

  “I thought only fairies and ghastlies could wield magic,” she submitted, changing the subject.

  The Beast was silent for a long moment. “There is much about magic that humans do not understand,” he replied at last.

  The rafters creaked again. “Will you not come down?” Rose asked suddenly, startling herself with her request. “It cannot be comfortable for you up there, and it is awkward for me to talk to you this way.”

  “Better awkward than terrifying. You would quickly regret your request, for what is once seen cannot be unseen,” he growled.

  Rose hastily looked at the floor. “What do you want of me?” she asked helplessly.

  The Beast did not answer. “How do you like your accommodations so far?” he inquired instead.

  She swallowed and forced herself to answer calmly. “Very well. They are much finer than anything I have ever known.”

  “Is that so?” His voice was curious.

  She nodded, knowing he could see.

  “Then I will leave you to enjoy them,” he declared. “You may explore as you wish. A bell will ring when it is time for supper.”

  “Thank you,” Rose replied automatically, and then immediately chastised herself. She should not be thanking her captor! Yet the Beast’s treatment of her had thus far been civil—even kind. He could have locked her in a cellar or killed her upon her arrival, but he had instead behaved very generously. Perhaps a little gratitude was not so terribly amiss.

  There are men out there far more beastly than he, she decided slowly, and I do not want to spend the rest of my days living in fear. So unless he gives me cause to act otherwise, I will try to be pleasant and find happiness here. Better to treat this all like a grand adventure than to fret about a past I cannot change and a future I cannot control.

  Her new determination was punctuated by another growl from her stomach, but in spite of what the Beast had said, Rose could not bring herself to demand to be fed. Supper would be soon—she could wait until then. In the meaning, she would follow the Beast’s suggestion and explore.

  Rose opened the door next to the kitchen and found a buttery full of wine casks and candles. The door after that revealed a pantry bursting with flour sacks, trunks of cloth, spare dishes, and other provisions. Across the corridor was a huge hall with a roaring fire and a long trestle table—doubtless this was where her meals would be served. The final room downstairs was a trophy chamber decorated with animal heads, crimson wings, strings of fangs, and other such displays. Feeling slightly nauseated, Rose quickly closed the door.

  Moving a little easier now that she had walked around a bit, Rose ascended the stairs once again. Her bedroom lay down the passage to the right, so she decided to first explore the passage on the left.

  She gasped as she pushed open the door to the first room. The chamber was carpeted in thick rugs and a fire roared merrily in the grate, but it was the abundance of instruments that had her clasping her hands with pleasure.

  Some, like the lute and recorder, she recognized on sight from village festivals. Others, like the harpsichord and viol, she had never seen before but knew what they must be from her father’s stories. Still others were completely new to her, and she stared around at them in awe.

  A graceful instrument—taller than she was—drew her eyes. It had a triangular body with vertical strings that decreased in length the closer they got to its stem. The black wood was polished to a scintillating sheen, and its strings appeared to be made of pure gold.

  Scarcely daring to approach such a majestic instrument, Rose carefully settled herself upon the stool that stood just behind it. The instrument’s back slanted awkwardly toward her face, and she wondered how she was supposed to reach the strings around it. After pondering for a moment, she leaned to the left so that her face rested next to the stem instead of behind it, and then tentatively ran her hands across the strings. A rippling sound flowed from the instrument, and laughing a little in delight, Rose did it again. The gentle susurration stirred in her the desire to sing, but she had no idea how to play the notes she would need to accompany her voice.

  Instead, she contented herself with plucking the strings and listening to their soft harmonies for a while, before leaving it to test out the harpsichord. She giggled at the lively sound it produced—so different from the device she had just played! It was easier for her to pick out familiar notes on the harpsichord, and she even managed to play a three-pitched song.

  After that, Rose moved from instrument to instrument, plucking, blowing, striking, and otherwise testing the wealth of musical devices arrayed before her. She could not recall the last time she had enjoyed herself this much.

  “I wish I knew how to play you properly,” she murmured aloud. “I would love to be able to sing along to your accompaniment.”

  The instrument beneath her fingers seemed to hum for a moment in response to her words.

  “Of course!” she exclaimed. “I may not know how to play, but you do. Oh, would you?”

  The instrument hummed again but did not otherwise make a sound.

  “Right,” Rose realized. “I am supposed to command you.” She hesitated, but her desire to sing was stronger than her reluctance to dictate an order. “If you know how, please play for me A Glorious Day to Shine.”

  The instrument obligingly gave a tumbling cadence and then launched into her favorite melody.

  “How delightful! All of you play along,” Rose ecstatically cried.

  Music swelled around her, a glorious blending of sound such as she had never heard before. Rose closed her eyes, forgetting for a moment all of her sorrows and fears and losing herself to the song.

  “Wake all you people, rise up from your beds,” she sang in a clear, strong voice. “The sun is a-gleaming on all sleepy heads. ’Tis a glorious day to shine! Rise now and make it thine. Hard work and good cheer will abound with us here. ’Tis a glorious day to shine!”

  * * * * *

  Hidden in the corridor rafters, Ari sat spellbound by the chorus of instruments and song wafting up through the slats. How he wished that the rafters could extend into the room where Rose was singing! But only the hall obeyed the design of his will—the other chambers were a law unto themselves, and he could no more change their design to fit his desire than he could break his curse on his own.

  Instead, he crouched low and pressed an ear to the floor in order to better listen to the girl’s pure, sweet voice. It was simply exquisite, and Ari felt a sharp pain in his chest as though her words were knives carving their way into his heart.

  You need to let her go, a part of him rebuked, but this time Ari shied away from the thought, seeking any reason to tell it no.

  She is unable to travel—she was limping today. Besides, she came of her own free will. She promised to stay, he argued.

  It is not right, his conscience insisted.

  “So condemning me to a life of solitude is?” Ari growled.

  Unaware of his inner battle, the beautiful voice sang on.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The chiming of a discordant bell interrupted the music, calling Rose to supper.

  “Thank you,” she told the instruments. “You may stop playing now. Perhaps we can do this again tomorrow.”

  The instruments fell silent, and Rose left the room feeling more cheerful than she had since her father had returned home.

  There was only one place setting laid out in the hall, and Rose felt even better knowing the Beast would not be joining her. Still, she shot a quick upward glance toward the ceiling, but like the other rooms, it was made of stone—the Beast would be unable to observe her from there.

  Rose settled into a large wooden chair, stroking the armrests in fascination. Her family did not own any chairs—only stools and benches—but she had seen the one reserved for the village steward in the town meet
ing hall. Unlike that austere piece, this chair possessed not only armrests, but also an embroidered cushion to soften its hard seat.

  Rose’s attention shifted to the bowl in front of her, which was made out of polished wood rimmed with gold. The inside was lined with gold as well, and the outside was intricately carved with vines and flowers. A goblet, similarly made, had already been filled with dark red wine. Behind the goblet stood a silver tureen that was emitting thin wafts of steam from the edges of its cover.

  “Allow me,” Rose instructed politely, lifting the lid and ladling the stew it revealed into her bowl.

  The stew was thick and rich, with large pieces of meat in addition to the standard mix of vegetables. She plucked out a piece of meat and tried it—the savor was gamey, with a strong aftertaste that was surprisingly pleasant. Rose thought the wild flavor might be venison, but since only nobles (and beasts, naturally!) were allowed to hunt deer, she had never tried it before and could not be sure.

  A loaf of bread was resting nearby, and Rose cut herself a piece. It was light and moist, without the coarse texture or bits of grit that were characteristic of the flour ground at her village’s mill. She used the bread to sop up the stew and scoop the meat and vegetables into her mouth, relishing in such fine fare.

  The quality of the food was so great that in spite of barely having eaten all day, Rose soon found herself growing full. The rushlights along the walls had lit themselves during her meal, and when she glanced out the window, she could see nothing but her own reflection against the darkness.

  Content, Rose stood and pushed her chair in so that the armrests just touched the edge of the table. As soon as she did, the supper dishes rose of their own accord and drifted out of the room.

  Feeling oddly superfluous, she followed the dishes into the corridor and then to the kitchen, where they were piling themselves into a large stone sink already filled with water.